


We Must Be Numb

by unluckeys



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Domestic, Flashbacks, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sexual Content, Starting Over, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Triggers, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-08
Updated: 2016-10-23
Packaged: 2018-08-13 23:27:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7990165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unluckeys/pseuds/unluckeys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They survived. No one knew how, looking over the footage. What do our hero's get? Nothing. Treatment for physical harm, nothing more. Waylon feels he lost it all, severe PTSD with depression and paranoia filling his every thoughts, living in assisted living who give him little pills to help him become numb. Until he gets assigned a roommate, the one who saved him. How will the two work together to move on? Or, is all hope lost for our duo?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I know what you must be thinking, 'why don't they finish the thousands of unfinished stories they have before starting a new one?' the answer to that is, uh, well, because, um...
> 
> Anyway! This is a lot different style of writing then I am normal with, and the ship itself isn't one I am well rehearsed in as certain -cough- others. I just really wanted to try facing their developed mental illnesses together, as well as explore a more serious topic of PTSD. 
> 
> If you have any thoughts on the reading, and want to see more, let me know!

“Little piggy, little piggy....” Deep, grunt, vibrating through his soul. “Where did little piggy go?” A grumble, the floor shaking with every step, his heart racing in his ears.  
Terror. Fear. True, unadulterated fear.  
Holding his breath. Closing his eyes. If you can’t see him, he can’t see you.  
“Little piggy..” Stomp,  
Stomp,  
Stomp.  
The chains clink within his ears. It feels like it is radiating deep into his soul, deep into his core. Feels it vibrate out of his mouth.  
Can’t breathe. He can’t breathe. Cold, clawed hands wrap around his throat. Suffocating. Screaming. Precious air leaving his lungs.  
Can’t move. Can’t breathe.  
“Wake up!” A rescue, his eyes snap open, his body thrashing in a way he didn’t know it was. Hitting, pushing, clawing, get away, rescue, savior.  
“Wake up!” a sharp pain, a loud smack. Miles opens his eyes, taking inside a deep breath of air. Lungs are burning, eyes are watering. He’s wet, wet with sweat, wet with drool, luckily he didn’t piss himself.  
“It’s alright, you’re safe now..” A calming voice, a soft touch, gently flesh on flesh, wiping away the sweat, ignoring the drool.  
“You’re safe now.” Again, blue eyes look deep into brown, telling him he’s alright, telling him he’s safe. A soft hand through his wet hair, a calming ‘shh’ to end his worries.  
“You’re alright...” Waylon, precious waylon. How did he end up there? Waylon had his own room. Miles assumed he must have screamed, gasped for air, thrash around. Waylon doesn’t sleep. Waylon heard it all. Came to rescue.  
He knew Miles would rescue him once again.  
Again, like in Mount Massive. A scene he doesn’t lose, a scene that never fails to haunt his closing eyes.  
Waylon was running, the groom was strung from the ceiling like his many victims prior to waylon arriving. That was almost him. He had managed to get a pair of jail trousers from the ground, he wasn’t naked, however he had to hold them up with one hand and the camera with another. That camera, that, stupid camera, the one that almost cost him his life. He clung to it tightly, needed to get out, needed to show proof to the world, to get these people out.  
Practically hysterical from almost dying, from killing someone with his bare hands, from seeing the door right before him, freedom, he could escape, he could be free-  
Blair. That ass hole. He acted hurt, of course Waylon wanted to help those who weren't trying to kill him. But he was, oh was Blair trying to kill him. He launched, a blade in hand, the direction right for waylon's gut.  
A flash.  
A flash of black.  
The man was gone, his body pushed back far away. Miles, there was Miles, his eyes bloodshot, his breath heavy, shaking, practically in tears. He made it, he made it too. Waylon didn’t know at the time that Miles was the man he contacted. The man he dragged into this hell.  
The man he owed his life too.  
Pulling him up, finally, out, outside, back to the fresh air, back to the freedom Waylon had been missing for months locked inside of this horrid environment.  
Freedom.  
They left together, Miles supporting Waylon's weight off of his bad ankle, Waylon watching around for any others who escaped and were slightly sane. Few laid on the lawn, however many still remained inside the burning, rioting building. The smoke caught attention to others, others called for help. No one knew how entirely labor intensive the find would be, not just a burning building. Swat team, national guard, group after group of armed and protected guard needed to safely take the people out.  
Waylon and Miles were shipped to the nearest hospital, their injuries more extreme than the adrenaline allowed them to feel. Waylon was told he may never walk normal again. Miles fingers were gone for good, his ring and index finger. The physical was impacted. Yet the mental, that will never be the same again.  
Waylon returned to his family, but he was different. Cold. Unwanted. His trauma was too much for his wife, the mother of his two children, to handle. Lisa was raising them alone anyway; she couldn’t add another child to her plate. Waylon couldn’t stand it. He went off the deep end, no sleeping, hardly eating, paranoid at every step someone will be there, be there to kill him, kill his family.  
Death was the only option. When he was found with a bottle of pills in his stomach, surrounded by his own vomit, Lisa considered giving him more time alone to make sure he was dead. But no, something within her felt he needed to stay alive. Even if she couldn’t care for him, nor could love the man he became, she was still married to him.  
Locked inside what he hated. A hospital, for the mentally ill. Not an ‘asylum’ they said, a ‘happy place’, where he will ‘feel better’. 10 different meds later, all he left was feeling numb. Tired, and numb. Without a family, without a friend. They placed him in assisted living, where people would make sure he stayed numb, two times a day. Finally, finally, he was informed he would be getting a roommate in his spacious two bedroom apartment.  
The settlement of the trauma from Murkoff was large, enough to cover the cost of his living for a while, but not forever. That impending doom hung over his head, yet it remained cloudy. Murkoff claimed they knew nothing of what was happening there, saying it was all Jeremy Blair’s fault for doing experiments that was not approved of. Of course they experimented on patients, with only drugs and federally approved electroshock therapy. They knew NOTHING of what happened there, and of course their facilities were checked and approved, not a sign of maltreatment whatsoever. The hospital was helping their patients, of course. Murkoff could continue on.  
The roommate lead to nothing but anxiety for Waylon, until finally he met him. Miles. Beaten, shaken, wide-eyed, his expression not all there.  
Together.  
Together they could get through it.  
The one who saved waylon.  
The one who brought him into it.  
______  
Miles sat, a light cigarette in his mouth, staring ahead at the wall. Waylon himself sat beside the shaking man, worried that once again he will slip into delusion of the past horrors. Mile’s hand shakily brought the cigarette out of his mouth, allowing him to breathe the smoke out from his burning lungs. Jitters calmed, yet anxieties raised.  
“Another sleepless night?” Miles asked softly, looking at his roommate with tired, tired eyes. Waylon gave a slight nod, bringing his knees to his thin chest. Miles watched as the moonlight hit his hair, making it appear almost white. Naturally it is ash blonde, a color Miles was sure wasn’t natural. Through the two weeks living there, he hadn’t seen proof of darker hair. Not a single root. He had spent a lot of time staring at the younger man. More than he would admit.  
Even now, as he allowed the smoke to enter and leave his lungs, his entire focus was on Waylon. Ever time he blinked, every breath he took, the way the light shined on his pale skin. The way he tried hard, so hard, to stare forward at the wall, to ignore the eyes burning on his face. He knew he was being stared at, he just didn’t want to meet it, didn’t want his fluttering heart to burst, his burning face to light the bed they were seated on on fire.  
“Take a picture, it will last longer..” Waylon whispered quietly, shakily, needing to take a deep breath in before his entire person evaporated. Miles let out a light chuckle, surprised by his timid little friends sudden come back. Waylon always was quiet, calm. Thoughtful, if anything. Snarky? Never.  
“Where did you get spunk?” Miles asked, setting his cigarette into his ashtray as he turned his body more towards his friend.  
The shaking stop.  
The only shaking was from his fits of laugher.  
Contagious.  
Waylon began to laugh.  
Shaking with laughter.  
Crying with laughter.  
They both began.  
Joyus.  
Needed.  
Eventually, the laughter died down.  
Nothing but silence.  
Silence, stillness.  
Numb.  
“Do you ever think we will be normal?”  
Stillness answered the question. Both knew the answer. No, they never will be. They will never be themselves again.  
Never.  
_____  
“Okay, so we need to plan this.”  
“I don’t know if I can do it-”  
“Get yourself together, Park! We need to do this!”  
Waylon wasn’t so sure. He didn’t like the stuff anyway, why on earth would he leave the comforts of their apartment for this nasty stuff.  
“I don’t want to Miles.” Pathetic, Miles thought. But he was the strong one, he was the one with, this, thing inside of him, this bubble of rage which threatened to pop at any second. However, not towards his younger friend and roommate.  
“You can do this, Park. Come on, you can hold my hand if you must.” Just what he did, latching his flesh tightly against the larger, stronger man, pretending to be careless of the eyes staring at them from all around. They had to do this. They just had too.  
“We need food, Park. We can’t keep living on delivery and Ramen. Now let’s go.” A strong tone met little resistance as the duo walked into their local grocery store. Eyes everywhere, people looking, people staring, kids pointing. At least, that’s what Waylon thought, believed. Just a few older people took note of their holding hands, however most carried on their business as if the pair weren’t even there.  
“People are staring!” Waylon stage whispered, holding tighter and tighter onto the man's hand until eventually he just grabbed the entire mans arm, gripping it like a koala to a tree.  
“No one is staring, you’re diagnosed with paranoia, remember? It’s all in your head. Now, let’s get a cart, go through the isles, and when you see good food, not just ramen, get it? It isn’t hard to-” Miles never finished his sentence, for a very large man, twice his weight and a good foot taller, miles could have swore, stood before him. Beady eyes. Thick, calloused hands, Miles could swear his nails were long, sharp, his wrists wrapped with chains, his feet clinging with every step he took, cling, clang, cling-.  
Couldn’t breathe. Go numb, he ordered. Go numb! His insides were shouting, yelling, fight or flight.  
Fight or flight.  
Fight, or, fight.  
Of course Mils choose the prior, taking a turn and dashing out of the grocery store, dragging Waylon with him. It was as if his strength was doubled ,that the man, though he was average in height and weight, could be tugged so easily, so hard, so far away.  
“Miles, Miles, MILES!” Waylon shouted, a loud beep deafening their ears.  
Bright lights.  
Sharp sound.  
Pain, pain that seemed to radiate throughout his body.  
But it wasn’t, just..  
Just his arm. Pain, a few drops of blood. Red, rich blood. Blood that made him nauseous on sight, blood that made his heart race. Miles couldn’t breathe, Waylon couldn’t breathe. The car still honked in disagreement for the two standing in the middle of the road. They were close, but did not hit neither one.  
But waylon had dug his fingers into his roommate's arm. Drawing blood. Not a stream, but little, single drops.  
Enough to make the hearts race.  
Enough to make the eyes water.  
Enough to ruin the trip.  
This was a bad idea.  
________________

The first rule to the house; every visitor must be screened by the respective other until approved to enter. That way, strangers may never cause one to be severely triggered, and knows of things to avoid.  
But, it’s hard to explain these rules to a kid.  
Much less Twins.  
It was visiting time at the apartment with daddy. Lisa tried hard to tell them not to tell daddy of their ouchies, or to ask him about his weird roommate, or anything like that. Of course they question why a thousand times, which just leaves Lisa more frustrated then she feels Waylon’s triggers are worth.  
So, she drops it. Just hopes the boys will behave.  
Of course they don’t.  
“Daddy, daddy, wanna see my owie? I played hard on the soccer field and skinned my knee!” Jonathan spoke almost the second they sat down. He was so proud of the little skin mark, a bloodied little knee he got playing a sport he loved. Jonathan showed everyone, of course Waylon would want to see it, wouldn’t mind. He was his father, after all.  
Waylon got nauseous. Dizzy. Felt sick to his stomach. The blood flashed back in his head, one scene after another, again and again, like a camera taking pictures. Bodies dripping blood. sculptures, the kitchen, the elevator, it all, it all came flooding back. Jonathan was excitedly going over the story as Waylon just stared, stared and shook, shook from his inner core. Lisa watched, knowing she was right. She was always right. Waylon just sat there, he didn’t explode or puke or burst out crying.  
To be traumatized means you have to react like that, right? Otherwise, you aren’t trigger, right?  
Of course, Lisa was always right.  
That's why, when Waylon excused himself to the bathroom, thusly puking out the last solid meal he had, which had been the previous day, tears streaming down his face, he calmly and quietly suppressed his emotions, washed his face, and returned to his family.  
He must be numb.  
Numb was the only way he could breathe. Could proceed with his family.  
When they asked him out, he had a right mind to say no, to return to his room and allow the numbing cold of the AC lull him into a sleepless dream. But no, he couldn’t. He was their father, he hadn’t seen them in a month. He had to go through with it. But, not alone. He couldn’t go alone.  
He needed his protector. The man who saved him. Who will continue to rescue him.  
Miles agreed to go, feeling himself to be reassured his triggers were under hold. Waylon needed him, needed him to be strong, to help him through his triggers, his fears, his paranoia.  
There was no trigger warning on life.  
Dinner was going fine, everyone was of a relative size, no one was upsetting, Waylon was feeling rather numb, which allowed him to smile and nod at David’s little antics with Jonathan. Lisa’s constant updates on their lives was a hum in the background, her voice mostly a dull tone which caused a headache from him.  
Miles held his hand under the table, a light smile on his face as he asked superficial questions to Lisa about the twins, anything to allow Waylon to keep from breaking. He already was cracked.  
But what wasn’t realized was the invasive questions young boys would ask. Why did he only have three fingers on one hand? No Davy that’s a rude question to ask a stranger! But mommy, it looked like he didn’t know how to use safety scissors. Davy!  
Scissors.  
Those horrible creation, worst in man under Miles’ representation. None were allowed in the house. If something was stuck closed, they used rounded knifes. You couldn’t stab with those, but the side was sharp. Safe, safe in their apartment. No one mentions them, mentions any instruments needed.  
Dinner ended without dessert.  
That night, both men laid broken.  
Dinner wasn’t a good idea.  
_________________  
Cling, Clang, Clang, The chains rattle, the feet right before him. A deep, dark gruff voice grumbled as afew things were lifted off the table.  
“The doctor will see you now.” He looked over to the other side of the desk he was hiding under, towards the voice, to realize his entire world shifting. Chains around his wrists and ankles, holding him, restraining him. Scissors, those blasted things. Set on his fingers, all of them, he had all of them! But not for long, not for long, the scissors closed, leaving a harsh snap! Sound as he was left to silently scream, scream and scream, his vision red.  
Pain.  
Agony.  
Oh, he wished for this to end!  
Screaming.  
Where was the screaming coming from?  
Not his mouth, all he could hear was the gushing of his blood, his heart racing.  
Yelling.  
Where was that cursid noise coming from?  
Pain. again. Light. Across the face, ouch!  
“Wake up! You big buffoon!” Waylon, waylon, he must wake up, open his eyes, must wipe away the blood, wipe away the red from his eyes. Blood dripping from his eyes, why was he bleeding from his eyes?  
Checked his hands, it’s clear, not red.  
He’s crying. Shaking, sniffling.  
Arm wrap around his torso, pulling him into a comforting, yet smaller lap. His entire body felt wrong. Waylon, the angel, gently brushed back his shaggy brown hair, gently took out his pack of cigs and lit one, setting it within the trembling hand of his roommate.  
Again?  
Every night. Every single night, the same dream.  
Sometimes he wished he could go without sleep.  
Like Waylon.  
Silence.  
“Can’t sleep either?” Finally breathing enough to speak. Calmly, calmly inhaling, exhaling. Sometimes with smoke, sometimes without.  
“Remember, you let me sleep here, so, just maybe, we both could sleep a little more” Waylon whispered, resting his head against the back of the larger man sitting on his lap. The first time Waylon started out in the bed, more prepared in case of night terrors.  
Silence, comfortable in a way.  
“How do you do it?” Waylon asked softly, his arms wrapping around the shoulders of his roommate, “How do you sleep every night, knowing the same thing will greet you?” Serious, pained. Waylon had nightmares himself, yet not as active as Miles night terrors. Most of the time he was up, able to help him. Most every night, able to wake him up, light him a cig, to help him calm back to sleep, where most every time it would be dreamless. Not as much for him, however the feeling of helping another, especially his roommate, was worth it.  
“I just... Hope. Hope for a better dream. That, it won’t be the same thing.”  
“Hope,” Waylon scoffed, rolling his eyes, “There isn’t any hope for me left.”  
“Don’t say that. You have a lot of hope, a lot of chance.”  
“Yeah, if you find it go ahead and let me know.”  
“Well... I have hope in you. Hope in us, I mean- you know. For us to get better, together. Chance we can make it out of this funk.” Miles spoke confidently, though on the insides he himself didn’t believe everything he spoke. Hope for Waylon, Waylon could behave normally when he saw people of larger sizes. Miles knew he couldn’t, the chains, the claws, all of them haunted his every waking thought, every dream. Masks, ribs, goggles, scissors. More things that cause his pulse to race, his boy to start sweating, the flight or fight instinct hitting his body like a ton of bricks.  
“Well... I guess if you even have hope... I might as well give it a chance... Simple put, you need me.” Waylon said, a cocky grin on his face as he gave the man between his arms a nice tight squeeze. Miles let out a fake cough, turning his body so he could get free of Waylon's tight embrace and push the smaller man back. The bed was large enough for two of them, allowing for miles to be set above waylon, who had been so violently pushed onto his back.  
A chuckle, a laugh. A sharp intake of breath.  
Miles looked down at his roommate, the pale moonlight once more making his soft, silky hair looking white, his lips looking a plum color, his normally blue eyes purple, beautiful, stunning. Breathtaking. Miles wanted more, wanted, just a little taste.  
“I need you....” Miles whispered, his eyes set down on Waylon's lips, his chest pressing down on the smaller man, who stood with blush face and racing heart.  
The desire was mutual.  
Their lips met in one clumsy, awkward movement, which at first caused Miles to not be nearly on the other man's lips, but more on his chin. Waylon laughed,, the movement giving Miles a better access to the others mouth, Waylon laugher soon replaced with a gasp of breath. Nearly sucked out of him from the larger man.  
A kiss, that’s all they wanted.  
Just a kiss.  
Maybe it was good idea to share a bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading my new story!  
> See other original stories I write on [Wattpad](http://www.wattpad.com/user/unluckeys)
> 
> Follow my [tumblr](http://unluckeys.tumblr.com/) for updates and art and all things trashy!
> 
> My [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/unluckeys/) has my daily life and more of my art, follow if you wanna!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waylon and Miles share a bed. The trauma of everyday life still plagues them. Shopping, sleeping, visiting the doctor, a normal traffic stop- hard for our duo to handle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading this, I know this is completely different from my Weddie stuff, and different in writing style as well, so I just, thank you very much!

“Alright, this will be easy.”   
“Easy to who, easy to you?”   
“Don’t sass me, I’m here to help you!”   
“Fine, whatever, let’s get this done with.”   
Midnight shopping trips was a lot easier. In thought, anyway No one there beside the workers and yourself, sometimes a drunk person, sometimes an old man. People they could deal with, as long as the drunken people didn’t loudly mumbling to themselves. Or, the old man didn’t wear a mask. Then, they were fine. Much better than day time.   
But, there was always the one aisle. They had to go down it, for the frozen dinners was across, leaving them exposed to the thing that unsettled Waylon past the point of understanding, past a fear he could even understand.  
Oh, did Waylon hate the meat department.   
So much meat, an entire wall, all bloody, some dripping- the first time they began their journey down here, he had to run to empty the contents of his stomach in a correct vessel.   
Of course the workers would stare.   
Some would ask if they needed help.  
No, no, they were fine, just shopping.   
Alright, yell if they needed anything-  
Will do.   
Waylon held on tight, tighter than he should, jumping at every beep, every dropped can, every shuffle of feet.   
Too loud. Overwhelming.   
“Come on, let’s get some chicken nuggets...” Miles said, himself detesting the look of the red meat.   
They could manage chicken nuggets, frozen.   
“Okay.” simple, quiet. Waylon’s own voice was unsettling, too loud. Someone could hear, those workers, they had tools, they were going to come after him.  
Everyone was staring.   
At least to Waylon. Most continued on their work, stocking shelves, chatting with one another, just trying to get through another 10 to 6. No one cared as long as the duo didn’t pocket anything.   
The occasional glance.   
Mile’s brown leather jacket was a little large, he could fit some meat in there.   
But he wouldn’t. Miles wanted to get out of the aisle as quick as possible. His little roommate’s grip was painfully tight. He knew why. Waylon couldn’t stop staring, staring at the meat. Miles didn’t personally see Manera, he avoided him. But oh, oh did Miles see the camera footage of the man. They say he lived, having killed every single variant or guard who went in his area. They tranquilized him, that being the only way for them to get that blasted chainsaw out of his hands.   
Manera was extremely malnourished, while showing signs of long time cannibalism. No one knew how long he had been eating people, rather if that started before or if the treatments from project walrider started it.   
They had to forcefully nutrition his poor, thin body. Miles felt a shiver down his spine thinking of the man. Meat was distasteful to him from all of the blood on his hands and his body from the asylum, however he wasn’t triggered with meat in the same way as was Waylon. His precious, little roommate, with eyes large like saucers and arms tightly around his.   
People must think he’s high.   
Soon they are out of that aisle, and allowed free reign of the entire grocery store. Waylon relaxes, but only slightly, because he’s sure that man pulling a lift full of items is staring at him. They all are. Everyone.   
It’s basically havoc when they get to the battery isle. Both Waylon And Miles thinks the same thing; they need them all. All they can get. They need a lot. They can’t run out, don’t run out of batteries.   
They have enough batteries to last them through their lives.  
But it’s not enough, never enough.   
Never run out.   
Stockpiled, and happier, they may rest quieter that night.   
Grocery shopping is a good idea, when at night.   
_____________

Screaming, shouting. Tired, bags heavy under eyes.   
He wasn’t sleeping anyway.   
The larger man took his rightful place within his arms, shaking, shivering, fearful. Waylon is calm, patient. Gets the cigarette ready.   
He understands.   
Sleep is not common for Waylon. He stays awake, continues to stare at the ceiling, continues to remember.   
The sights. The smells. The pain. The voices, ‘Darling’, ‘Little piggy’, ‘Meat’- Never to leave, never to fade.   
Miles sucks in, breathe out. The smoke blowing out the open window. A chill shivers through Waylon's body. The calming man holds tighter, resting an ear on his comforters chest. Arms over chest, side to front.   
Thump thump thump   
Rhythmic, calming. Repetitive. Waylon’s heart flutters once as the larger man rubs his thumb gentle over his hand.   
The contact sent tingles through his arm, shivers stronger than the cold.   
Miles smiles, focusing on increasing the pace of that heart. Faster, he wanted faster. More skips, more jumps. A reaction, a distraction.  
His hand travels, moves. Up and down, calmly, just the tip of his finger.   
Waylon’s cheeks redden, his arms wrapping tighter around his friend.   
Heart beats increase, thump thump thump.   
Miles looks up, moving them so the man which once held him now lays within his lap. Cigarette once the most comforting thing discarded in the ashtray without a thought.   
Face to face.   
Nose to nose.  
Breaths intermingling.   
Blue eyes to brown eyes.   
Pale skin to tan skin.   
Hearts beating in rhythm   
Thump thump thump, fast,  
Lips lock.  
Hands meet hair,   
Tanned to blonde   
Pale to brown.  
Closer, harder.   
Passion, passion sparking.  
Like fireworks in the chilled, still, night sky.  
Their bodies intermingle,   
Their souls become one  
Closer,   
Closer,   
Never close enough.   
A shirt on the night stand  
Some socks by the door,   
Not close enough.  
Pants landed on a dresser,  
Skin to skin,   
Warm to cold,   
Closer, closer, closer,   
Passion bubbling,   
Hands traveling,   
Wait,   
Stop.  
Close,   
Too close,  
Too Close,   
Can't breathe.   
Heart skips beats   
Skin separates from skin,   
Separates,   
Runs.   
Waylon runs, runs to the bathroom,   
His heart is beating out of control,   
Thump thump, thump,   
Can’t breathe.   
No, no- miles, don’t touch me.   
Don’t look at me.   
I’m sorry, I’m messed up, I can’t-   
Silenced. Silenced with a gentle hand. Silenced with a distant, yet comforting, pat on the shoulder. The contact is warm, welcoming, yet just enough to help him breathe.   
Any more, he couldn’t breathe. Needs his own cold air, his own way to escape.  
Miles allows him, he’s distant, yet there. Waylon lets out a heavy sigh, air more than welcome.   
Attacks, they plague his fragile body. He can’t breathe. He can’t think. Run, run and hide, escape. All commands leaving his head.   
Breathe. Stop.   
The shower turned on. Steam built up in the room. Waylon didn’t noticed. Didn’t realize-   
A gentle hand guiding him, the remainder of clothing discarded carefully. Waylon tight, body shaking, eyes wide. Guide him, tell him how to move.   
Miles did, guide him under the hot shower, helped him remain on his feet. Wash, small, comforting circles.   
Clean off the blood that wasn’t there.   
Too soon.  
It was too soon to bid into passion.   
__________________

“It’s too bright out, let’s just go home, we can reschedule-” A gentle hand reached from the driver's seat, silencing Waylon’s shaking voice.   
“We’ve rescheduled twice already, if you wait any longer, you’re going to die of exhaustion.” Miles kept his eyes on the road, yet allowed one hand to intertwine with the shaking, pale, hand of his neighbor.   
“How do we know they will listen to me, since, you know...” Sheepish, a moment he doesn’t like to speak of, eye contact completely avoided. The bright sun was easier to look at then the man whose hand he was holding. Tightly, Miles glanced away from the road to look at his fragile roommate.   
“Because, I’ll be there with you. If you lose your voice somewhere I’ll speak up for you, okay? Because we have to go through this toget-”   
“STOP!”   
Shrill voice,   
Sudden red light,  
Horns honking,   
People shouting  
Lights flashing  
No, no, everyone is okay.  
Miles ran the red light, people were upset. No one was hard.   
Officer approached the window, getting Miles registration and ID.  
Waylon begins to shake.  
Traffic speeds by.   
“Hey, aren’t you the guys who went through that asylum? I’ve seen your videos and wow, I don’t know how I’d make it through those if I was you, with all the bodies hanging and people chasing you, Why didn’t you just fight back, like, common, it’s common sense, it was like you hardly even wanted to live, so, wh didn’t you fight back?”   
Why didn’t you fight back,  
Why didn’t you fight back,  
Why didn’t you.. Fight back?   
Waylon begins to panic, unable to breathe, unable to think.   
Why didn’t I fight back?   
Miles is yelling at the officer, finish the ticket or get out!  
Why didn’t I fight back?   
Miles is handling it, laying on the horn when the officer takes a moment to snap a photo of the two within the car, most likely to tell his friends he met the two survivors,   
Why didn’t I fight back?   
Miles tells waylon it’s okay, he did the good thing, he didn’t hurt the poor people, it wasn't them fighting, he did well. Eddie was dead, that was an accident, he was just defending his life, He shouldn’t have fought back.  
But, Why didn’t I fight back?   
So easily do words dig under his skin. Rather it be for not sleeping, or from his PTSD, the words would not leave his head.  
Why. Didn’t. I. Fight. Back?  
The car begins again, holding a tight hand, saying soothing words.   
Doctor's office, the doctor's office, he didn’t want to go.   
Miles hated doctors, but he was focused on Waylon. He needed meds to better make him numb.   
They weren’t numb enough.   
He still couldn’t sleep.  
Still needed to be numb  
First Waylon, then miles, they would speak for a new cocktail.   
Make them more numb.   
“I’m sorry...” Apologies fill the air. A gentle kiss on the back of the hand. That’s all he needed. Acceptance, it’s okay, breathe All he needed.   
It was bad to be recognized.   
Good to pay better attention to the road.   
Miles waits at all stop signs now.   
_______  
“He’s in assisted living already for god’s sake, we don’t touch the meds, we’d have to get fucking bolt cutters if we would try, and do you think we are going to get near those things? No! So what is the problem of changing his cocktail a little? The old pills will be disposed of already!” A second time, to deaf ears. The psychiatrist was simply writing notes as Waylon sat with a look of horror on his face as his roommate lost his temper for one of the first times around him.   
Miles responded to his trauma with anger. Angry at himself, anger at the hospital, anger at the world. Now, this woman who sat with a light condensing smile on her face as, for the second time, gently denied Waylon’s request to change his pills. These were the first that didn’t make him suicidal. Mainly because they didn’t let him sleep, therefore those times he felt like hurting himself, it became too much work.   
Also, if he were gone, who would be ready with Miles cigarettes in the middle of the night?   
Miles let out a yell in anger, which responded too with security opening the door and leaning on the door frame as they closely watched every movement that Miles made.   
“You’re just going to let him die of exhaustion? He hasn’t slept more than 4 hours this entire week! It’s his meds, just change something, give him something, something- anything!” Miles sat back in his chair aspirated as Waylon sat, staring at the men at the door. When Miles took the time to glance, his eyes as well went wide, his anger immediately depleting as a sense of dread filled his every bone.   
The security was a very tall, slightly chubby bald man in his late 30’s. Everything that matched Chris, even the little grin on his face as he used his power of simply being to sit down the angered man.   
It was written on their chart to only scheduled Miles when that officer was there.   
These people would rather cause a traumatic experience than to simply calm him down normally.   
These people had too much on their plate for complaints from people they called ‘handled’.   
This check up was recorded.   
They still maintained the label of ‘handled’. Discarded from the mind like yesterday's trash.   
Miles and Waylon quietly went home, however did take the detour to treat themselves to ice cream.   
A drive thru, the cashier a small woman, nothing fearful. Nothing traumatizing. Just eat your food, and drown in the underlying sorrow from a failed meeting.   
Help wasn’t out there in abundance. One needed to be ‘critical’ to get help.   
Even then it isn’t guaranteed.   
At least they got ice cream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have any input on daily life events that you do, let me know and I could potentially put how our duo tries to deal with this in the next chapter!
> 
> See other original stories I write on [Wattpad](http://www.wattpad.com/user/unluckeys)
> 
> Follow my [tumblr](http://unluckeys.tumblr.com/) for updates and art and all things trashy!
> 
> My [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/unluckeys/) has my daily life and more of my art, follow if you wanna!


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